Eternity
by Moderately Mad Moxxi
Summary: Heartbreak, he decides, glaring down at the picture of her, is ineffably the worst experience he's ever had the displeasure of enduring.


Heartbreak, he decides, glaring down at the picture of her, is ineffably the worst experience he's ever had the displeasure of enduring.

His sheets seem infinitely more coarse, comparing the cotton to the silk that is her skin. Every violet he sees pales in comparison to her vibrant gaze. The lights seem dim; his world is darker without her.

He's been lying in that room for days, thinking. She may have remarked at his expense about it, at one time. "You, thinking? The world must be ending again." The thought hurts, and not because of the insult. He wishes so dearly for that connection again. He thinks, wonders, ponders, the infinite question, and he comes up with a thousand answers and yet he finds himself without one. The question he poses to himself, it can't be quantified, nor can it be qualified. It is as ineffable as his feelings right now, and the infinite question...

 _'Why?'_

The question branches off into subcategories. His mind flashes through infinite possibilities, things that could have been, things that have already been, things that will be. _'Why am I not good enough?' 'Why can't I have her?' 'Why is this so hard?' 'Why can't I give her up?' 'Why do I feel like I want to go to sleep and never wake up?' 'Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?'_

 _Why doesn't she return my feelings?_

 _Why did she choose someone else?_

The questions have simple answers, he knows that. Because she doesn't. Because she did. But it's the motives that haunt him. _'Why?'_ is a much broader question than the surface it provides in the material world. It's an opening, a space into someone's mind, the inner workings of their soul, their psyche, their very being. _'Is it my hair?'_ Vain, perhaps. He never took her to be the vain type of woman, but you never know. _'Is it my skin?'_ Green, last time he checked, was not popular with the ladies, especially as a skin color. _'Is it the way I dress?'_ Doom Patrol uniform. Standard, but fitting. Perhaps Magenta and Black did not appeal to her. It went on and on. _'Height?' 'Weight?' 'Strength?' 'Eyes?' 'Lifestyle?' 'Attitude?'_ Everything added up to a huge blank, unanswered questions that could and would never be answered, because at his core, he reasoned that she probably didn't know herself. And thus, his thoughts come full circle:

 **Because** **she doesn't.**

Such a simple concept. So pure, innocent. It was a mindset which he knew he had when he was younger, when the most pervasive questions could have been, on that particular evening, something akin to: Why is the sky blue? Why do we call this that? Why does this taste like it does? And the answers, of course, were just as simple to the younger him. Because it is. Because we do. Because it does. He knew that, as he grew, that mindset went away. He experienced so much to make him what he was today, cynical underneath that happy facade he used to keep the world at bay. Death, hardships, pain, suffering. The world was cruel, life the cruelest of all. People come into this world, and people die. He knows this better than most.

Perhaps that's why. A new thought. It's quite the possibility she clearly sees to the cynicism that clutches at his heart in the end. She's quite intelligent, after all. And beautiful. So very beautiful.

His eyes dart back to the picture. He briefly wonders when they left it.

He feels crazy. All these thoughts, these feelings, swarming around his head. He's quite young, after all. Seventeen going on eighteen is an odd age to fall in love, and some would say that it's impossible to find a true love at such an age. He'd beg to differ any day of the year. Positive emotions are something he's had stunted all his life. One could say that it was a real possibility the conditions of his growth, and the hardships he'd had to endure would contribute to that. One could also say it was just the way he was. In either case, happiness, joy, love... all had been nonexistent in his growing years. He learned by some law of social conformity that it was accepted to smile in the presence of others. He learned what the standards were for friendship in a typical setting. He studied and perfected letting that light reach his eyes even when he felt empty inside.

But she changed that.

The picture reminds him of that.

He's in the picture, mind you. It's simply that he's never enjoyed the way he looked, always glossing over it in photos. One of the only materialistic things about himself, he is moderately pleased to report. He's always attempted to focus on what matters most, but inside, his reflection is what he loathes the most. More to the point, he's smiling. Next to her. The photo booth was a whim, and he honestly doesn't remember if it was hers or his. An awkward time in their relationship, he laments. It was that night which was the first time he'd ever admitted his romantic interest in her. She made him feel something other than the self-loathing and depression that had ruled over him for so long. He supposes that's why, in the final frame, he decided at the very last moment that holding her hand and giving her a kiss on the cheek was a good idea. He's elated in the photo, he can tell, remembering the ecstatic feeling of her allowing him to be close in such a way. She looks happy enough, he thinks, but he'll always be looking for the disgust hiding in her eyes, for her to see him as he sees himself.

He doesn't find it. He never does. He pries his eyes away from the photo and looks away to the ceiling as he recounts the events that led to his current predicament. Looking at the photo makes him hurt more.

* * *

 _She doesn't seriously talk to him for months. He knows this, accepts it. It's fine. He'll live. She's a busy person, even outside of their foremost job. She's taken on a lot of outside responsibilities. Thus, she's too busy to keep a going conversation. He makes these excuses the same as she does, even if a part of him is crying out how gullible he's being, molded to her whims like a puppet on strings. He ignores the voice. Four months of torture. He returns from a few weeks of fun. He's been visiting his old family, old friends. But he's homesick. Somehow the distance makes her silence even more unbearable. He tries a final time, in vain, he tells himself, as he returns. She responds, and he's surprised, and yet, she bears bad news._

* * *

She's dating another man. She won't tell him how long it's been going on, or who it is.

It feels like a betrayal to him, In a way. Anyone he's talked to about it tells him it is indeed, a betrayal, that he should be angry, that he deserves better. He tries to bring himself to believe it. He tries to bring himself to hate her, but he can't. These feelings that he has won't go away, no matter how he tries. It's to the point that he'd run a fever, made himself physically ill, just emotionally trying to feel something that at his core he knew was wrong.

He can't bring himself to hate her, and he absolutely can't bring himself to stop loving her.

Heartbreak, he decides, glaring down at the picture of her, is ineffably the worst experience he's ever had the displeasure of enduring.

His sheets seem infinitely more coarse, comparing the cotton to the silk that is her skin. Every violet he sees pales in comparison to her vibrant gaze. The lights seem dim; his world is darker without her.

He finds a light in the darkness. Yelling from somewhere in his home. Not all romances last forever. She's not off-limits until she's married.

And he'll happily wait an eternity for her if that's what it takes.


End file.
